


drunk enough to say I love you?

by rathxritter



Category: Agents of S.H.I.E.L.D. (TV)
Genre: F/M, Happy Ending, Pining, alternative universe
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-07
Updated: 2019-08-07
Packaged: 2020-08-11 05:14:04
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,011
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20148217
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rathxritter/pseuds/rathxritter
Summary: Fitz has been looking at Simmons all night. He hasn’t really talked and now’s the time for a bit of a chat. But how do you begin something? It takes such courage.





	drunk enough to say I love you?

**Author's Note:**

  * For [amazingjemma](https://archiveofourown.org/users/amazingjemma/gifts).

> Unbeta'd.

Soho, a fancy and exclusive club that promises discretion, quality and standards. It's a club that has a reputation to maintain, a reputation established in the eighteenth century although the real change happened after the first world war. While country estates were losing their value and the aristocracy gradually lost its status, society changed forever, there was an irresistible need to create a place where they could go and, for a limited amount of time, feel as if things had not changed: Thank God for Peggy Carter. It's an elegant place that doesn't accept rioting behaviour or use of illegal substances. It's respectable, aimed at upper-class people with important family names, with legacies, with ancestry that goes back centuries to the Norman invasion, and with connections to the Royal family - they're all related to them somehow, no matter how many cousins once removed. Blue blood, titles and money: that's all that matters.

It's a place for former members of the Bullingdon Club, that exclusive all-male dining club for Oxford undergraduates that has been talked about a lot ever since the debut of that one play at the Royal Court Theatre almost ten years ago. Future politicians, all of them, about to follow in their predecessors' footsteps: the days of trashing restaurants are behind them, it's a thing of the past that is sometimes discussed with fondness over dinner, but both the hatred and the never ending sense of superiority are still there, lingering and never leaving them. They can do whatever they like, wherever they like, because they are entitled to it, because it's their birthright, because they are part of an elite. They call themselves the best and the brightest while other people call them filthy, rich, spoiled and rotted - it's merely a matter of angle and points of view. They're also the same people who play with the country's future, which nowadays always seems to be decided on the roll of a dice. Why please people when you can please a selected and limited number of annoying men in you own political party?

It's also a place for delightful, principled, courteous and able girls and women who have yet to make their contribution to the world, something that's been promised by the Good Schools Guide. All of them bred to be queens. Some of them are related to the Carters themselves, some of them went to boarding school with princesses and future queens, but all of them have the world at their feet: they have the money and the means, they have the connections and the opportunity. Bright young things, these future heads of the UN who are going to name their children something like Mozzarella and Bruschetta, and then send them to boarding school to get an education. It's ludicrous, really, that most of the time they're portrayed by the media as if they're commoners - far from it.

S.H.I.E.L.D. It's a name, a guarantee. It's a subterranean den with Chesterfields, mind-bending mirrored infinity lights and a pewter metal bar counter - its shiny and polished surface reflects the light in an interesting and mesmerizing patterns. The place is all velvet and red leather, wooden and well-kept floorboards that don't show any scratch at all. It's discrete and difficult to access, small and irrelevant, overlooked by the press. Quite strategic even though it's hardly needed: there's always something more important to discuss and the general public isn't interested in any of the regulars even though some of them have been though one or two scandals back in the day, scandals that have been talked about ad nauseam. It's a microcosm, the closest thing there is to being back at boarding school, to one of those important dinners attended by every person that matters. Pre-war society moved to the early twenty-first century.

Loud music played live and people on the dance floor, moving to the rhythm, to that crescendo made of fortes and frenzy semiquavers. A swirl of bodies under the flashing cold blue lights. The air is alive, vibrant and full of energy and there's a driving force to the whole scene that pushes people to get up and join the small crowd - bodies pressed together, a couple of fumbling hands. The urge to join is an irresistible impulse, but there's a couple of people still sitting at their tables on black leather sofas or on green velvet chairs, with their drinks in front of them - they lazily stir them with their paper straws or play with the coloured paper umbrellas, as they suck on the lemon slices, their sour taste mixing with that of the salt.

Fitz looks away, saddened by the lonely people sitting at their place. He's upset and in love with his best friend in the world, someone who's been beside him the whole damn time, what's their excuse for not joining in? He goes back to study the crowd, a useless attempt to spot Jemma. The room is too dark and the lights don't help at all, not to mention all the people standing on the dance floor and moving relentlessly, not at all tired, enjoying themselves, frenetic and almost feverish movements.

They've had lunch together - crab croquettes, hot smoked salmon and seabass carpaccio - some new place in Oxford Street she's been looking forward to try. His birthday present for her, a tad more expensive than his finances allowed. But the warm and sunny day had allowed them eat outside - London stretching itself in front of them - it was worth it. He'll go back to his usual life in the morning, no extravagances, shopping at Tesco, no more posh restaurants, but for tonight let them enjoy themselves and end the day here: Her favourite bar on earth, it seems fitting. After all these years, he still doesn't know whether it's because of loyalty or because of the coasters that have stylized eagles printed on them. After all these years, he still has no intention to ask: what he's afraid about is Jemma holding against him the fact that she only worked for S.H.I.E.L.D. to prove him wrong, prove that she wasn't useless. Though she isn't and never has been, but it's too bloody late to tell her now.

There's two pints of beer in front of him. They're cold and, on the outside, the glasses are wet and droplets of water are running down the transparent surface - he watches them in their silent race. He's tipsy, almost drunk: not his intention, not the reason why he's here, but now there's something appealing in having the world look softer and having his inhibitions lowered - edges are fading and it allows him, if only for a couple of hours, to pretend that nothing has changed. Nothing at all. It's all jolly well fine as Jemma would say, though she does say a lot of things and uses the phrase _my dear old chap_ unironically and without sarcasm. He has no intention to start doing that too. One has to draw the line somewhere.

For a moment he tries to remember whether he still has some Alkalizer back home, he remembers buying a box for Hunter a long time ago and not throwing the package away, but he can't be sure. Well, Fitz thinks, he's going to tell Jemma that he needs some and ask if they can stop on their way home. Not a problem, she's not even driving, because she's got the family chauffeur at her disposal for the night. Funny word chauffeur. He tries to whisper it as he lifts his pint, but stops and wonders why on earth someone would even need a chauffeur in London in the twenty-first century. Public transport is fine and while he agrees that bus schedules are a work of fiction, the Tube is definitely one of the greatest inventions of all time. Along with swivel chairs.

"For fuck's sake," he mumbles.

Jemma always tries to pretend that she isn't one of them, but she is. She is. So what if she's the one who's going to name her children Mozzarella and Bruschetta? He'd have to stop talking to her. Even worse, he'd have to pretend not to know her. Which is difficult, if not impossible, given that two of his books are dedicated to her. With Love. Oh God, he can't be in love with a person who is about to get married and is going to name her children Mozzarella and Bruschetta.

"Fuck, fuck, fuck." He stops to fold his napkin. "Forget about it."

Well, if she asks him for a wedding present, he'll get her a book of baby names. Much needed help, those poor children attending boarding school and with names like that! He's going to tell her or write it down, lest he forgets, a to do list of sorts, taking note of his thoughts before they slip away and are replaced by an impending headache.

The thought of Jemma accepting a proposal makes him want to whimper and cry. Unrequired feeling and fear that their friendship is doomed. Fitz stretches his hand out to reach for the menu: he needs something stronger, something to drown his sorrows in. Another whisky, lime and maraschino Black Jack or one of those bourbon and maple-loaded Fen Tiger, Jemma's default order whenever they go out for a drink. Maybe he's going to like it, one more thing that they have in common, the universe's way to prove that they somehow belong together and understand each other better than anyone else on this planet does.

Black letters on yellowish paper, the list of drinks looks like a tabloid and he pushes it to the side, unable to look at it. Memories flooding his brain. Those wretched papers have mocked him for weeks with their titles and their pictures - all that speculation about a possible wedding ending at the first royal scandal in months. But to go to work every day and see them, indistinct pictures of Jemma and that guy - he's pathetic and feels stupid. It's all his bloody fault and now he's spoiling her birthday by being a low cad and sitting on a black Chesterfield dreading the moment she'll come back to tell him, without too many words, that she's engaged to be married. Engaged to that American. An extraordinary arrangement, if he can say so himself, and that guy is hot, handsome, funny. Fitz can see the way Jemma looks at him, and the worst part is that he finds himself unable to hate the guy, he actually likes him, even though the mere name makes him boil with rage.

And Jemma! She's so radiant and he loves her so much and wants to remain her friend for all eternity, he could actually start crying. There they are, parting ways - he's about to move back to Scotland and God knows what Jemma is up to, it feels as if they haven't talked in months. A sharp pain at his heart. Sometimes, late at night, staring at the ceiling, he thinks about telling her about his feelings: a text, an email, a phone call. He doesn't dare though the idea of interrupting something is amusing and quite amusing indeed. Mortifying to even think about it. Would she change her mind? Some dramatic and sensational reveal, but those kind of things have no place in reality and she'd probably hit him open palmed on the cheek. People get married for love, even her kind, he's got to accept it and move on with his life. One final act of kindness and friendship: sparing Jemma's children the names Mozzarella and Bruschetta.

It's the cosmos, he once told Hunter, it wants them to be apart. She went to some boarding school that bred girls for queens and he grew up moving from one place to the other because his parents believed that moving was a realistic and functional way to save a marriage. And they've only met because Bobbi told Hunter who told him that the Jemma Simmons was willing to work as consultant for his first place and was ready to answer all his questions. Two different worlds. Very different worlds. They shouldn't have become friends and he shouldn't have fallen in love, they should have kept it professional - end it before it even started.

Fitz sighs, it really is the bloody cosmos. And what did he ever do to deserve all of this? Is this the price to pay because he's had two plays out and three detective novels set in rural Scotland that are selling just fine, meaning that he can rely on his writing to make ends meet? Because even if it is, he doesn't deserve it. At all. He pays his taxes, does his best to be nice to everyone, donates some of his money to causes he believes in. He voted remain, he's been vocal about Brexit for the past three years, he's against insularity and speaks about the dangers of it and vouches for the importance of second language education. Maybe it's about his ideas on Scottish independence.

"What are you doing here?" asks Jemma as she walks towards him. She looks like a glimmering goddess as the glitter on her shirt catches the light and reflects it. Like the sun and the moon. Radiant and happy. The dishevelled look suits her.

"I'm angry at the cosmos," he says and takes a sip of beer. The liquid is fresh and the alcohol goes straight to his head. Thank God, he thinks, that it's Saturday. "I hate it! I hate it as much as it hates me. But I know why."

"Oh really?" she asks, raising an eyebrow.

He nods. "It's because I'm here with you. Because we're friends, because you're, you know... English."

"What?"

"And upper-class. Oh God, Jemma, I should speak Gaelic more often." He stops. What if Gaelic is dying because he doesn't speak it as frequently as he could? "I should use it in one of my plays. Tell me, are you related to anyone who thinks that Scottish people are vermin?"

"No?"

It's settled then, he thinks. It's all about writing a play about the aristocracy and their filthy ways and then falling in love with one of them. But Jemma, he can't let her go which means that for some sort of law of retaliation he's going to have a lifetime of misery. He should leave her and be happy. He should tell her about his feelings too and then try to move on with his life.

"Bloody cosmos," he mumbles.

"Come and dance with me!" Jemma yells, trying to be heard above the music.

"I don't feel like it."

"Spoilsport-"

"No, it's-"

"Don't say the cosmos again, because I'm pretty sure that the cosmos doesn't want anything from you. I don't think that the cosmos cares."

"It's not that. It's-"

At this point, grinding against Jemma isn't a good idea at all. In fact, it could be one of the worst he's ever had - he can't control his thoughts, they're going staccato, let alone his body and he'd rather not press an erection against her. That would be embarrassing and he has no strength for explanations.

"Alright, alright." She pauses and sits down in front of him. "I hope you had fun tonight!"

"I did! Jemma?"

"Yes?"

"Can I ask you something?"

"You just did."

They laugh - it starts with a snort and then erupts completely, their whole bodies shaking.

"Oh, ha ha ha. Will we still be friends?"

"Of course, you lemon! What on earth are you even talking about?" She stops and looks at him, moving her body closer to his. "How drunk are you, Fitz?"

"Not enough."

Not drunk enough to tell her the truth, but too drunk to find coherence in his thoughts. He wants to tell her, _I couldn't take my eyes off you all night tonight. _Instead, he's making a tit of himself which seems inevitable if you've ever fancied someone or carried the torch for someone. He's got to talk to her, but where to start and how to begin? It takes such courage.

"It's just for a year, Fitz. Me working in Saint Petersburg and you'll be busy in Scotland. It's not-"

"I'm not talking about Saint  Petersburg," he cuts her off. Though he appreciates her attempt to soften the blow, he'd rather have her step over the inanities and reach the point, tell the truth. "Simmons?"

"Yes?"

"I-" He stops. "May I say how exceptionally beautiful you look tonight, Jemma?"

"Now, I bet you say that to all the girls, Fitz."

"Sure." He shrugs. "I'm driving them wild."

"You are." She laughs and moves closer to him once more. "You really are. It's that blue polo, it suits you. It makes you look dashing. Matches your eyes. And you've got really nice arms."

"Thanks." He jokes. "I do push-ups now. Double digits."

A drop of sweat rolls down from his temple to his cheek, providing a ticklish sensation. He coughs and looks away, too aware of her presence beside him.

"What were you going to say?"

"What? When?"

"Before I told you that you were driving everyone wild."

"Never mind." He took another sip of beer. "Let's... Let's get a breath of fresh air, shall we?"

"Do you want to go home, Fitz? I don't mind, I can call Ward, he'll be here in a jiffy."

"No." 

He wants the night never to end and to stay with her forever, frozen in time. No impending separation. No doomed relationship and feelings forever swallowed back and hidden.

"Then you've got to dance with me at least once before we leave."

"Alright then."

"It's settled."

"Yes, it is."

Up the stairs, their hands holding the handrail. The music goes quieter and quieter, slowly becoming background noise. Past the glass walls and into the night. The sound of traffic, cars rushing down the street in a city that never seems to fall asleep. Above them, couple of stars can be seen through the outlines of buildings - pallid and shy, less brighter than the light pollution.

Fitz leans back against one of the brick walls, his head tilted back ever so slightly, and watches a plane fly above their heads, high above them, green and red blinking lights. The air is fresh, sobering, and it's surprising really that the world isn't shaking or twirling and that the ground is solid under his feet, his equilibrium completely intact, considering the amount of alcohol he's consumed until now.

"So?" says Jemma.

He looks at her and looks away. A strap of her t-shirt has fallen down her shoulder, her pale and freckled skin completely revealed and exposed - to kiss her, trace the outline of her collarbones and shoulders, hide his dreams right where her neck meets her shoulders.

"So-" he repeats, but before he can go on Jemma steps forward and places her hands on either side of his face. Any coherence deserts him at once and he's left paralyzes as he tries not to think about Jemma in any way, which proves itself to be quite difficult when she's standing so close. His eyes wonder up and down, to her eyes and lips and then back to her eyes and the irresistible impulse to just kiss her! Her head moves forwards and backwards, infinite and gentle delegations, caused by her own indecisiveness and hesitance though maybe he's imagining it and is drunker than he thought.

"Jemma?"

"Yes?"

"Happy birthday."

She kisses him - it's sudden, her lips on his, a gentle and hesitant touch that merely adds fuel to the fire. There's no going back, she shouldn't have done it. Maybe she was aiming for his cheek and he somehow moved his head to the side by accident and now her lips are on his and it feel right, inevitable, as if their time has always travelled to reach this moment.

His hand wander behind her back, her naked skin under his palms, and he holds her close and smiles - nay, grins - against his lips. It is slow, sweet and languid movements as if they had all the time in the world, as if the possibility of someone walking in on them was so remote it became inexistent. It's her hands run through hair and on down jaw line, his hands moving up her spine - light touches done with extreme carefulness. It is tongues touching, moist and slippery muscle against moist and slippery muscle, alive, moving, running. It is a sighing sound escaping Fitz's mouth, a sound that marks a transformation, makes things clearer, a further acknowledgement of reality - as if the guttural sound that has just escaped his throat has freed them of the dream like features of what is happening, sharpening the edges of it, making it more real, leaving no doubts.

And it's real, better than any dream, despite their mouths that taste of alcohol. It's fervid kisses and tongues touching, inhibitions lowered and Fitz kissing her neck as her hands tucked at his shirt. And then she moans and kisses him with more purpose, as her hands play with his hair. It's like a jump back into reality - sudden and unexpected - and he remembers at once that they shouldn't be doing this because it's too bloody late.

"I'm sorry," he says, pulling away. The fresh night air helps to clear his mind. He's not going to make a scene, he's going to be.. rational. Yes, like a grown up person and look at it with clarity. It's their bloody fault and it's too bloody late. Or maybe he should just seduce her away, take her back home and let history take its course. "I shouldn't have done that."

"I kissed you first, Fitz."

"I know, but-"

"Why?"

"Because you're probably going to get married. Soon," he explains. "And then you'll move across the pond with your handsome and rich husband, forget all about me and..."

He'll be in Scotland, like a fool, forever a victim of missed opportunities and unrequired love. It's unfair really, that their friendship is going to come to an end. A pity.

"You're my best friend in the world, Jemma!" He all but yells at her. "I don't want to lose you. I don't want to miss you every day for the rest of my life."

"Married?"

"Yes. And it's not nice. Not nice at all." He pouts and feels like a spoiled toddler in the process. Then, with honesty, he adds, "Well, it is nice if you're happy. Just don't name your children Mozzarella and Bruschetta."

"My what now?" She stops and looks at him, taking his hand and letting it go almost immediately. "Fitz, where did you get that piece of information from? Are you reading tabloids now?"

"I'm not. I- Everyone knows that you and... I just wish you'd told me."

"Fitz." She laughs. "I'm not getting married."

"You're not?"

"Goodness, no!" She pauses and looks at him. "Listen, I'm not going to get married to the first person people think I'd make a good couple with. Give me some credit at least."

"But the ring-"

"The ring is because he is getting married, just not to me. Did you really think that-"

"So you're really not getting married?" he asks again.

"No," she replies. "And I'm not pregnant either."

"Good. I mean, if you're happy."

"I know what you mean, Fitz."

"Do you want to go back in?" he asks.

"No, I'd like to go home."

"Oh."

"With you, Fitz."

"Oh. Oh," he repeats with a little more emphasis as the meaning of her words finally starts to settle. "Your place though, mine's a mess. You'd probably change your mind and given that the-"

"Don't." She laughs and kisses him.

"The cosmos, it hates me. It hates us. It wants us to be apart."

"I don't want to hear the word cosmos ever again," she replies between kisses.

"I'm glad you're not getting married," he tells her matter-of-factly.

"Yeah, me too."


End file.
